Bruce Wayne: Origins
by aumguitarist07
Summary: Yet *another* origins story, in which a young Bruce Wayne searches both his soul for the resolve, and the world for the strength, to carry out the Vow he made after that fateful night. On the verge of giving it all up, Bruce reminisces on his successes and failures on his journey to becoming the man that might save Gotham City, unaware the harbinger of his true self draws near...
1. Chapter 1

**Please consider this a disclaimer. I do not (nor have I ever, nor will I ever) own any rights to the Batman persona, franchise, characters, etc. This story is a work of (at best passably written) fiction based on characters owned by Bob Kane/DC Comics/Warner Bros./etc. etc. ad nauseam. I receive no compensation for this work of fiction (except for your attention and reviews! ^_^), nor do I ever hope to receive any. Hopefully this little blurb covers its intended purpose of making this whole sad act somewhat less illegal. On a lighter note, I hope you enjoy!**

...

A pair of cold blue eyes peered vacantly into space, the owner's face a study in melancholy. He sat cross-legged in the basement of a family's house. In front of him lay a short stack of paper, the ink on it still fresh; a medium-length _katana_, and a 1911 .45-caliber automatic pistol, a magazine containing a single round next to it. He looked at each one in turn, letting his fingertips glide over each in turn. _Is this to be the final legacy of the Waynes? No, I shouldn't ask the question in that way…. The legacy of the Waynes died years ago...was murdered._ He blinked his eyes, and wasn't surprised that they were bone-dry. He'd long since given up shedding tears for the Wayne family. It was easy, when he'd realized he was no longer the son who had watched Thomas and Martha Wayne gunned down. Easy, when he'd long ago let go of the name Bruce Wayne.

He reached around behind him and brought forward a bottle of whiskey. He yanked out the cork top and turned the bottom of the bottle upwards, letting the fiery liquid flow down into his waiting mouth. The burning wetness tickled his throat and felt heavy in his stomach, but he knew from experience that the heaviness would dissipate into a not unpleasant buzzing feeling from head to toe in fairly short order. He took two more healthy draws from the bottle, and flung it from him, closing his eyes and listening intently to the sound of the glass shattering against the stone wall of the basement.

He lifted his head, eyes still closed. He spoke aloud for the first time in over a year: "Father… Thomas Wayne…. No… yes, Father. In my final hour, I will allow myself that luxury. Father, you have not spoken to me in years. I know now, why that is. I have failed. Mother, forgive me. I failed you both. I know now that I do not have the fortitude, that I do not have the ability, to do what I promised you. I lost my way, I betrayed the path, and became a monster. I tried to give up my name, to become anonymous; I thought if I could just become a Shade, I could avenge the proper way, so that no one could call the integrity of the Wayne family into question. I thought that I-…." He realized he had finally started weeping again. He did not wipe the tears away; a boy doesn't wipe his tears before his parents.

"But I'm unfit to carry it on. I can't do anything here now. It's over…. Will you… will you let me come home… Father? Mother, please… I tried. I swear to God… I tried." He fell forward, lying prostrate on the cold floor, as if before the feet of a deity. He held back choked sobs, begging. "If I can't carry my Vow forward… I don't want to be apart from you any longer." He reached one grimy hand forward, shakily grabbed the gun and magazine. In a swift motion, he jammed the mag into the butt of the gun; the well-oiled parts easily locked into place. The gun made an impersonal, mechanical sound as he racked the slide back and released it, driving home the single round into the chamber. He double-checked the hammer back and the mechanical safety down, and put the muzzle to his right temple. His expression was eerily peaceful. "Father… Mother…. It's Bruce…. I'm… I'm coming home." He smiled, and his index finger on the trigger grew taut. Outside the house, the wind howled and the clouds grew darker and darker, threatening the season's first nor'easter. It was a cold winter's night.

...

_It is a cold winter's night. The boy can see his breath as it escapes his lips. He pretends to be an important businessman, or a famous movie actor, puffing smoke from an imaginary cigarette and making low-toned monologues. It's approaching Christmas, and his parents have taken him out for a night at the cinema. The movie was outstanding, exhilarating: _The Mask of Zorro_, a movie Bruce Wayne is sure will become a timeless classic. In his mind he imagines himself a swashbuckling, dashing hero, saving the damsel and being a beloved hero of the city. The thought and the cold make him shiver under his coat._

_His mother looks at him, her expression full of worry. "Do you have a chill, sweetheart?"_

_His father looks back at the two of them, his expression one of patience and contentment. "Don't worry; we're on our way home now, and we'll fix you right up with some nice hot chicken soup." He smiles reassuringly._

_But now Bruce is between his two pillars of strength, and he draws warmth from them. His father Thomas is to his right, tall, broad-shouldered, and with kind and intelligent eyes. His mother Martha walks to his left, her head held high like some kind of royal duchess, full of pride and joy of life. His father guides him with wisdom, instills in him his sense of justice and fairness. His mother guides him with love, teaches him the value of compassion, empathy, and humanitarianism. He is their master work, they adore their son, and his early accomplishments are as much theirs as his._

_An ideal family, their only sin being so wealthy amidst a horrendous depression. All their humanitarian efforts were forgotten when his clothes and her jewelry were viewed by eyes whose vision was tainted by starvation._

_Their eyes, his eyes… his eyes, filled with hunger- and alcohol-driven disdain. His mind addled with need, that need, causing his teeth to grind and his skin to leak sweat and that foul odor and his fingers to scratch, scratch, scratch…. Ahhhh, that itch! His hand, moving seemingly on its own, snaking deep into his coat pocket and clutching the cold handle of the .38 Special. His legs, moving jerkily, carrying his body, gaunt from hunger and the needle, forward with off-beat rhythm. His mouth, managing to whisper and shriek at the same time, "Don't move. Not another fuggin' step, man…. Wallet, jewels… money! Gimme the money, man!"_

_Bruce hasn't even had time to process this unfathomable trail of information. He wants to look at his father's face, to draw strength and courage from it. He knows his father would be unshaken in the face of this outrage. He wants to look at what he was sure would be his mother's serene expression, filled with compassion and empathy, aimed at this poor wreck of a lost soul. Instead, his eyes are trained on the face of a lunatic. The man's eyes, wide with uncertainty, fear, and hostility, like those of a rabid animal trapped in a cage. But when no one comes to their aid, the eyes slowly change, taking on an expression of sick control, like that same rabid animal has realized there is a lesser creature trapped with it that it can exploit, and barring that, kill._

_Bruce only breaks his gaze for a moment, when he realizes the man with that evil-looking gun is moving his eyes down to him; the thought of making eye contact with that man terrifies Bruce more than anything. But it's when the man reaches his arm out to grab Bruce's scarf, a simple thing that might have earned him just one or two more nights with a precious fix, that Bruce feels his mother lunge forward, thinking of nothing but her young cub and of protecting him. Bruce can see the man's startled expression; this was not part of the plan. The startled expression quickly turns to terror when the gun fires._

_The explosion threatens to deafen Bruce; his head is ringing, and he can smell that sickly sweet, acrid scent of gunpowder. Then he sees his mother fall backwards, sees the look of revulsion, carried over from her response to the gunman's attempted groping of her son, on her face, and sees the way her chest has almost caved in from the impact of the bullet. The man looks like a wild alley cat suddenly caught by the scruff of its neck: hissing, terrified, crazed. Without hesitation or thought, he wildly swings his arm towards the large man, moving forward not at the gunman but towards his dead wife. The gun fires a second time; Bruce watches with horrified fascination as the end of the barrel lights the dark alleyway up like a small sun, watches as the back of his father's head explodes outwards, showering the alley behind him with smoking chunks of flesh and slivers of bone. The gunman's wild expression remains unchanged. He now brings the muzzle of the gun to bear on the boy, his hand shaking uncontrollably. He hesitates for just a moment, then scowls and pulls the trigger. Bruce doesn't even have the wherewithal to flinch or cry out; he just blinks as the gun harmlessly clicks, its hammer falling on an empty chamber. The sound seems to snap the man out of a dream state; he looks around as if recalling something important, looks at himself, the gun, the bodies, the boy. He stares into the boy's eyes for what seems like an eternity, as if searching for his reflection in them. He then looks back at the gun, then down the alley behind Bruce, as if hearing something. He scowls, and throws the sidearm into a corner. He shoves Bruce backwards, sifts through the pockets of the deceased Waynes, takes what he can carry, and sprints into shadows, sparing the boy not another glance._

_Bruce stays on his back for moments, minutes, hours. It seems to him like he'll never move again. Finally, some unknown force pulls him into a sitting position. He realizes, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he has pissed himself. For some reason, noticing that starts his rational mind back up again, and he takes stock of the situation. It takes less than a second for him to be on top of his parents, shaking them wildly, and screaming: a pitiful, voiceless scream that crescendos into a blood-curdling shriek of fury and loss. It is this sound, not the gunfire, that brings assistance._

_..._

(_One week after the death of Martha and Thomas Wayne_)

Alfred Pennyworth sat in a recliner, his head in his hands, fighting through clenched eyes and teeth the tears that have, again, threatened to come. He refused to show any signs of cracking around the boy; he knew he was the only thing keeping the young master together, though he'd started to suspect he wasn't doing a very good job of that, either. Alfred had a hard time forgiving himself for that, though he suspected no amount of time in the RAF or the British Secret Service could have prepared him for being the cornerstone of a seven-year-old's mental stability. Still, it was impossible to feel self-pity when he saw the young boy wandering the expansive halls of the manor, a dazed and morose expression on his face. He had been awakened at night by the sound of Bruce's feet dragging as he trudged through the house at all hours of the night more times than he cared to think about, and more than a couple of times he'd had to shake the boy awake when the screaming started….

Alfred loved the boy; he had to admit that in the time since he'd started working for the Waynes, the boy had become something of a surrogate son to him, though now the situation felt forced, and he admitted there was a new awkwardness between the two of them, especially with Bruce refusing most of his food, and practically all conversation.

He allowed himself a few more despairing moments before, slowly, he rose into a straight sitting position, then to his feet, and he felt more than heard his joints creaking as he straightened his back, smoothed his coarse salt-and-pepper hair, and squared his jaw and shoulders. With a slight nod, as if in salute to the spirits of Thomas and Martha Wayne, he shot forward, his steps quick and purposeful but also light and with an otherworldly grace and quiet. He made for the kitchen first, to collect Bruce's dinner platter. On it was hand-carved, slow-roasted pork, hand-whipped potatoes, and grilled zucchini, one of Bruce's favorite meals. He hoped against hope that the savory smell would leave Bruce defenseless against his need to eat, which Alfred was sure must be very great indeed. The boy was rapidly losing weight from his trauma and sudden "diet".

He stopped to do a final self-collection outside Bruce's bedroom door. He was taking a deep breath when he suddenly realized with a start that he could hear… something. He pressed his ear to the door… nothing. He started to sigh with relief, when it started again. He held his breath, listened…. Bruce's voice. Low, with an achingly sad quality… murmuring out loud. Then he heard the word "Father," and he almost dropped the plate. He backed away from the door, training of years past suddenly making him impossibly quiet, even on the aged wood floors. He realized he was still holding his breath, and let it out in a soft _whoosh_. He realized with some irritation that he was in a cold sweat, and his hands were shaking slightly. He tried to rationalize what he'd heard…. _The boy is only seven…. Saw his parents brutally murdered right in front of him…. How could I… how could I hold him accountable for missing them? For wanting to talk to them?_

But he realized that wasn't quite right, either. Bruce hadn't been speaking out loud to himself, just speaking his mind to some harmless imagined specter. No…. What Alfred had heard was a response… as if to a question. What he'd just walked in on… was a _conversation_. He seemed to mull this thought over for several minutes. What could be done…? Send the boy away, to be evaluated? What would come of that? Alfred could just imagine the newspaper headlines…. _Heir to the Wayne fortune committed. Wayne the insane. Bloody lovely end to one of the most celebrated families of Gotham, if not all of the States _that_ would be_. Alfred teetered on the edge of what he felt might be the most important decision he'd ever make. Then, suddenly, a cold calm came over his mind. _No._ No, Alfred Pennyworth would not be the man to condemn Bruce Wayne to a life in a padded cell and involuntary psychotropic drug injections. He felt a familial link to Bruce, deeper than blood, primarily patriarchal. He took a steadying breath, swept his hair back, and took uncharacteristically heavy steps back towards Bruce's door. In the moment of quiet between him stopping before it and gently knocking, he noticed the solemn-toned voice of his young master had fallen silent.

"Please come in, Alfred." Alfred hesitated with his hand poised over the doorknob. Bruce's voice sounded aged, somehow, and terribly hollow. Still, he put on the best sympathetic expression he could muster on, and entered the room with the perfect air of quiet dignity of a man of his station. Bruce looked expectantly at the man, and at the plate resting on his hand. "Good evening, Alfred. What's for dinner tonight?"

For his part, Alfred couldn't have better hidden his shock at Bruce's strikingly sudden change in demeanor. For days the boy had shown no inclination towards even the most simple of conversation, let alone a shred of notice for his food. Sniffing, Alfred responded, "One of your favorites, sir. Roasted pork, whipped spuds, and grilled zucchini. Beauchamp assured me it is his best work yet." While Alfred couldn't help a deep-seated spurning of the French master cook's lack of some (most) of the finer points of British civility, he begrudgingly relented that the man knew his way around a kitchen. Bruce nodded, then took his silverware up with unsteady hands. He seemed to regard them, as if inspecting some alien objects, then set upon his meal with deliberate, mechanical motions. Alfred slipped for just a moment, sighing with obvious relief. Unable to help a quiver of hopefulness in his voice, he asked, "Will you require anything else this afternoon, Master Bruce?"

Bruce paused, giving the question serious thought as he chewed on a mouthful of pork. "Yes. Please ask Hilde to draw a hot bath, and to do a change of my bed linens while I'm in."

Alfred couldn't stop a look of displeasure on his face. "…Master Bruce? I'm more than capable of handling those tasks for you, unless you-"

He almost jumped when Bruce's clammy hand clamped down on his forearm with an improbable tensile strength. He looked up from the pale hand to Bruce's sudden desperate expression. "No! …Alfred, no…. I… I need you to stay close. Just for a little while. …Please?"

Alfred shifted uncomfortably under Bruce's grasp and heavy, pleading gaze. Finally, he relaxed his shoulders and gave the boy a gentle smile. "Of course… Master Bruce."

Apparently sated, Bruce relaxed his grip, and went back to eating his food, somewhat more enthusiastically, while Alfred quickly left the room to arrange for Hilde to perform the requested tasks. He briskly reentered Bruce's room, relieved again to find Bruce's plate empty and wiped clean with some of the fresh bread Beauchamp had baked for the young master, and to find Bruce out of his bed, looking out the window, and not engaged in conversation with the departed.

Bruce had bathed quickly but efficiently, and for a while seemed to forget that Alfred was even there, except that every so often, when wiping soapy water from his eyes, he would stiffen and turn his head in the butler's direction, only to seemingly relax again when he saw him still there. It wasn't until Bruce stood in his bedroom, dressed in evening wear, that he addressed Alfred in speech again.

"Alfred?"

Alfred stood, almost at military attention, and answered, "Yes, Master Bruce?"

"I want you to tell me about my parents."

Alfred's breath caught in his chest, and he stared, mouth agape, at what he had to remind himself, for the third time that day, was a mere child. "S… sir?"

"My parents." Bruce turned to look at him with stone eyes. "I want… I need you to tell me everything about them."

Alfred found it difficult to meet the boy's gaze. "Sir…. They were _your_ _parents_. You know-"

Bruce's harsh tone and narrowed eyes stunned Alfred into silence more than his words. "I know _pieces_ of them, the pieces they showed me when I was around. I know things about them… the way my father stood at his desk, the serious tone he used when doing business on the phone. The way my mother smelled after she took a bath, the way her hair caught the sunlight." He cleared his throat; his voice had started to become thick towards the end of his tirade. "But you know… what others said about them. What my father's business is. What the people they associated with were like. What they talked about at their board meetings and social calls. I need to know… _who _they were."

Alfred shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "But… why?"

Bruce smiled a grim smile. "Because, Alfred…. As a Wayne, I must… be about my father's business, and in a manner of which my mother would approve. It's what they want."

Alfred's right eyebrow shot up, nearly to his hairline. "S-… sir? Did you say it's what they _would_ want?"

Bruce's smile faded by the slightest degree. "Of course, Alfred…. Like I said, it's what they would have wanted."

Alfred's expression was a pained one, but he nodded slowly. "Understood, Master Bruce…." And he spoke for the rest of the evening, and Bruce had him continue every day for weeks afterwards. All the while, Bruce never smiled in compassionate nostalgia. He merely listened, a shadow over his eyes. He never asked a question for clarification; Alfred's practically eidetic memory and precise manner of speaking left no room for anything but perfect clarity. Bruce's manner of quietly absorbing everything like a sponge made Alfred more than a touch uneasy, but so relieved was he that Bruce wanted for companionship that he didn't linger on it for long… until he would lie awake in bed, remembering Bruce's piercing gaze, solemn expression, and the sound of his voice, almost staccato and emotionless, when he'd been talking to his parents that day….

...

(_Four years later…._)

Alfred stood in front of the rear passenger-side door of a black 1958 Bentley S1 Continental, his matching suit and tie pristine and starched as stiff as his expression. He stood like a soldier stands at a ceremonial inspection, and while his face was rigid and impassive, his eyes were aflame. He watched as the boarding school's associate dean marched a bruised and decidedly unrepentant-looking eleven-year-old Bruce Wayne towards the immaculate automobile.

As they approached, Alfred could hear the superintendent scolding Bruce in harsh tones. "And you will write a letter of apology to Mr. and Mrs. Sionis, and read it out loud to them tomorrow afternoon. Is that _understood_?"

Bruce looked up at Alfred, as if he were a flame reaching out for fuel or oxygen to feed its own searing heat. Alfred's piercing gaze told him that there was neither for him. Finally, the fire in Bruce's eyes ebbed, and he looked at the ground and mumbled incomprehensively, but the tone was sufficiently chastised so as to satisfy the school rep. He looked at Alfred with disdain, motioning for him to come closer after Bruce had entered the car. Alfred approached the man carefully, knowing that at this time it was best to play the apologetic and concerned steward. He wrung his hands convincingly.

"Sir…?" Alfred asked, playing his part convincingly.

"Mr. Pennyworth…," the assistant dean said slowly, running his tongue along the top of his mouth, and finally clucking. "I do understand young Mr. Wayne's situation, and please allow me to be the first to apologize." Alfred inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the man's words and trying his best to hide his contempt for what he knew was coming. "However, we are _also _aware of his… precarious… situation. It's bad form, transferring between four prep schools in as many years. Sooner or later, the time might come when even the wealth of the Waynes isn't enough to open doors in Gotham. These… _lapses_ in proper conduct, conduct _expected_ of someone like the 'Prince of Gotham,' must end. Or we'll have no choice but to terminate his tenure here, as well."

Alfred bowed his head penitently. "I completely understand, sir…. Now, as to the matter of Master Wayne's _conduct record_…."

The assistant dean's eyes narrowed, and his mouth spread in a crocodile's sly grin. "_Yessss_…. While we can't deny that Mister Wayne's _grades_ are exemplary, it's unfortunate that brawling with other students, especially the son of the celebrated Sionis family, _is_ in fact something that cannot be ignored. Normally, that type of behavior would be put into Mister Wayne's permanent record…. And at his age, when placement into the types of college prep high schools that Ivy League university's draw from is approaching, well…."

Alfred bit down to keep his face from warping into one of utmost disgust. He knew this game. Reaching into his inside breast pocket, he withdrew a thick fold of crisp bills. "I'm sure Master Wayne would be _most_ appreciative were you able to find a way to… keep this incident strictly non-administrative, shall we say, sir?"

In a flash, the administrator tucked the wad of cash into his billfold and walked away, nodding and looking well-and-pleased with himself.

Alfred sighed and spit on the ground in the man's direction. "And I hope you choke on it, you bloody prat." He walked around to the driver's seat and eased himself into it with a huff as he shut the door behind him and buckled in. He looked in the rearview mirror at Bruce, and let his expression speak for itself. Bruce seemed unaffected by the seriousness of Alfred's demeanor, and returned the heavy look with admirable tenacity.

Finally, Alfred gave up, and sighed as he started the car. "Well, sir, I sincerely hope you accomplished something with this…. It's cost you a pretty penny to maintain your pristine record, yet again."

Bruce made a face at the mention of money. "The money isn't important, Alfred."

Alfred gave him a flat look. "Oh? And pray tell, Master Bruce, what is?"

Bruce smiled that thin, grim smile again… the one Alfred had seen on his face more and more the past few years. "…The mission, Alfred."

Alfred resisted the urge to pull at his hair. "The 'mission' again, is it? And what does having a row with a little toff like Roman Sionis have to do with that, exactly? What do you call _that_?"

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, remembering….

...

_Roman Sionis stands at the forefront of his gaggle of meatheads. Through a disquieting guile and bribery, he is the captain of the school's lacrosse team, and he is the richest student in the school, with the sole exception of Bruce Wayne, a fact Roman lets slide for the mere fact that Wayne has never shown aptitude at anything other than being a bookworm, and has never been a hindrance in any of Roman's other ventures. His current attention is not on the Wayne ninny at the moment, though…. It's solely focused on the cowering visage of the young boy huddled before him._

"_Hey, hey, boys…," Sionis coos, ingratiatingly and menacingly at the same time, "I think we've scared the poor kid."_

"_Deserves it, you ask me," one of Sionis's lackey's asserts. At eleven, he looks more like he's fifteen, acne already littering his face, and his brow bulky over his eyes. He has a wild shock of fire orange hair, and it's a wonder he would defer so completely to Sionis, until one realizes he simply holds a quiet admiration for the way Sionis uses brains and financial clout to achieve the kind of things he never could with simple muscle. "Hey Sionis, if the kid won't pay…. Maybe you should… you know… _make_ him."_

_Sionis eyes the brute coolly. "And here I thought you suffered from a self-imposed _moratorium_ on thinking, Sledge." He grins sardonically, as always impressed with his own wit. "But maybe you're right…. How do _you_ think we should make him?"_

_Sledge had been confused as to what, exactly, a "moratorium" was, but at the chance to egg Sionis in to what the whole team admired the most about him, he lets fly his uncertain belief he was being insulted. "Put _it_ on, Sionis…. _Scare_ him a little, ya know… do that _thing_ you do."_

_The rest of Sionis's group nod, murmuring in agreement. Sionis looks almost apologetically at the scrawny, scared-witless boy before him. He shrugs helplessly. "You heard them, kid…. It wasn't _my_ idea." The cruel smile that spreads across his face tells a different story, as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a black fold of thin cloth. As he begins raising it to his face, the other members of the lacrosse team back slowly away. As much as they find a sinister pleasure in watching Roman Sionis work once he's donned _that_ thing, they are equally afraid of even unintentionally coming between him and his victim once he really gets started. Sionis lowers his hands from his face, and the boy gasps back a shriek at the terrible sight of the skin-tight black mask tight around his face. Sionis lurches towards the wide-eyed boy, pulling his arm back in preparation for delivering a closed-fist backhand. "Let me show you… why _no one_ refuses Roman Sionis when he makes an offer."_

_No one sees him, no one notices the flash of movement until a surprisingly strong hand is gripping Sionis's arm, stopping it mid-swing. Even from under the mask, Sionis's flabbergasted expression is almost humorous, but nothing compared to the faces of his gang of followers behind him. Who the _hell_ would dare step between Roman Sionis and his quarry?_

_Roman reaches up and tears the mask off his face, and his expression is twisted with rage. "_Wayne?!_ Where the hell did you come from?"_

_Bruce Wayne tightens his grip on Sionis's forearm, and he can hardly suppress his grin when he sees the one year older boy struggle to hide the pain. "Who cares…? More to the point… why don't you show _me_ instead?"_

_..._

Bruce opened his eyes, still smiling that thin dark smile. "I call that… a good start."


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce sat in his chair, upright and appearing attentive as ever to the professor's lecture, but all the while his jumbled thoughts inexorably returned to… the Mission. What else was there? What other driving force kept him going through the motions of an otherwise exhaustingly mundane existence? Lectures, homework, quizzes, exams…. No, the discovery of certain groupings of elements by Döbereiner leading to the modern layout of the periodic table of elements held no special meaning to him, but it apparently was the crux of Mrs. Cox's, his Chemistry teacher's, entire universe at the moment. And Bruce doubted that the 'F-O-I-L' method of solving mathematical equations involving multiple binomials was going to help him in any way, but according to Mr. Kemp, his Algebra teacher, it was the key to unlocking the mysteries of the cosmos. And he had serious issues coming up with a potential situation in which being able to pick out a gerund in even the most complex of run-on sentences would _ever_ be useful to him, but he felt sure that if he were to ask his English Composition teacher, Mrs. Earnest, she would tell him that the inability to do so might condemn him to an eternity in damnation. No, high school was nothing more than an inconvenient stopgap, an obstruction left to be overcome, and another way to practice keeping his identity obscure.

His early foray into vigilantism against Roman Sionis, and the subsequent unforeseen consequences, had taught him an important lesson. He could best pen it as former President Roosevelt had said: "Speak softly, and carry a big stick." While he had proven Sionis was nothing close to a physical threat to him, Sionis's clout in the school was far-reaching, and Bruce had suffered in other ways he'd not imagined. In this way Bruce had come to recognize the need for anonymity in his actions. He eschewed Sionis's method of using others to do his muscle work so as to keep from getting his own hands dirty, though…. Bruce knew that using hirelings to strong arm others was as far from in-keeping with his envisioned future (as hazy as that still was) as possible, but he had no inspiration as to a solution to that particular problem… _yet_.

Bruce had been proud, _thrilled_ even, at his physical prowess in taking down Sionis that day, but at the same time he'd also discovered something else, equally important… the need to be able to take down a _group_ of attackers. One-on-one against Roman Sionis, his caged ferocity had fully come to bear against an assailant, with spectacular success. But once the rest of the junior high lacrosse team had entered the fray, it seemed like it was all Bruce could do to escape with his life until the timely intervention of an instructor.

So Bruce began investigating defense classes, to mixed results. Bruce was infatuated with the notion of multi-assailant defense techniques promised by East Asian fighting styles, but their thinly-veiled contempt for Bruce's identity, mixed with a healthy fear of allowing Bruce to come under anything resembling a potentially harmful situation, meant that Bruce was treated as an infant. He was afforded no full-contact sparring or tutelage, and though he picked up on forms, stances, and techniques with alarming quickness, he soon felt himself falling behind the other students because of that fact. Again Bruce found himself faced with the inescapability of his own name, the name of Wayne that preceded him like a long shadow, catching everything in its path, towering ahead of him and making his actual self seem small and insignificant by comparison.

Bruce's mind snapped him back to the present; he felt a sense of thankfulness that it was at the start of a Psychology lecture, his favorite class and the one he felt might be _most_ useful to him in his… _future_ _endeavors_. His teacher, Mr. Fulmer, stood at the front of the class, alongside a young man who didn't even look to be in his twenties yet. Bruce's eyes narrowed as he studied the apparently scrupulous young man, who was dressed in a tweed jacket and khakis, had short but shaggy brown hair, masked his intelligent brown eyes behind round spectacles, and was reed thin.

"Class, I'm pleased to introduce you to our guest speaker today, visiting us from Stamford University in Coast City, Doctor Jonathan Crane," Mr. Fulmer said, his excitement poorly concealed.

Crane looked at Mr. Fulmer with a slight frown. "I apologize, sir; I'm still pursuing my Doctorate's." Addressing the class, he said, "Mr. Crane will do." One of the students behind Bruce sneered and mumbled a comment, to which his friends snickered. Crane's attention immediately went to them. "I beg pardon?"

Bruce had heard the remark, having to do with the guest speaker more resembling "Ichabod" than "Jonathan", but the humor behind the statement was beyond him. Most humor was. He ignored the interruption, and instead forced himself out of his treacherous internal monologues and directed his attentions to the words of Crane instead.

Crane was showing himself to be as much a student of theatre as one of psychology. He made a quick flourish of his hand, ending with a lifted forefinger. "…Fear. Psychologists and psychiatrists for decades, nay centuries, have delved into the depths of men's minds to understand it. Pure science defines it as an involuntary chemical reaction in the brain, hormones and chemicals generated by the amygdala in response to perceived threats." Crane locked his hands behind his back and paced back and forth in front of the class, his bright eyes burning into those of random individuals as he continued. "But to look at it from such a mathematical standpoint is narrow-minded, nigh _dangerous_ and _unforgiveable_. There is a hidden element of fear, one that eludes such a stark and, admittedly, _boring_ definition. How is it that what one person perceives as a threat goes almost unnoticed by another? Why is something that should be a universal threat, that is… one that presents potential loss of life and limb… not, in fact, universal? How is it that someone could suffer from hydrophobia, the fear of water? _Water_, the single most life-giving element on the planet? Or take, for instance, the fear of intimacy… that which the human race is evolved to value for its own continued existence? There are a plethora of fears, some categorized, most not. Glossophobia, fear of public speaking; thanatophobia, fear of death; arachnophobia, fear of spiders; herpetophobia, fear of reptiles and, more specifically, ophidiophobia, the fear of snakes; ornithophobia, the fear of birds; acrophobia, the fear of heights; chiroptophobia, the fear of bats…. The list is practically _endless_! Almost _every_ single person on the planet suffers from what most psychologists refer to as an 'irrational' fear. To the unfortunate person in question, however, that fear is anything _but_ irrational.

"If fear is, in fact, simply a chemical reaction in the brain to a perceived external threat, why wouldn't there be a way to _counteract_ this very chemical reaction? What purpose do the hormones generated by the brain's amygdala serve, other than to generate the famed 'fight-or-flight' impulse governed by the hypothalamus gland of the brain's limbic system? None whatsoever, of course! If it were possible for medical science to help people, not _just_ those afflicted with some terrible phobia, but _all_ people, to overcome their fear, isn't that their civic duty? The betterment of mankind…. Imagine what man could achieve if science were to find a way to remove his every fear altogether? The fear of ridicule, the fear of failure…. What man could achieve _without_ fear. Well, we certainly dabble in the realm of things like ideology and philosophy," Crane sniffed disdainfully, "but in the end it all boils down to… psychology. At Stamford, I am fortunate enough to be heading a small team of _fear specialists_, if you will, to develop actual chemical compounds to head off the signals responsible for the emotion of fear. We're very near the process of moving the chemical into broader human testing, as the first several rounds have been _quite_ promising. In fact, most of the test subjects have all but _demanded_ we give them a sample to take home themselves!" Crane gave a slight chuckle.

Bruce was awestruck, for a multitude of reasons. He could think of any number of ethical qualms a governing body like the FDA might raise in response to the idea of a drug that did what Crane claimed it could do. Not to mention the potential issues that could arise from chemically interfering with regular brain signals. The human mind being a delicate balancing act of chemicals, the slightest imbalance could send someone on a mindless, violent rampage, or put someone into a vegetative state. But at the same time, the premise was unendingly promising…. The idea of living without even the fear of _fear_ itself… _that_ was a possibility for which Bruce saw no end of usefulness when he considered his Mission…. _What if… I were to talk to Crane…? Nothing presumptuous; I could invite him over to the mansion, make mention of wanting to make some contributions to science that had overarching humanitarian goals…. It could certainly open the door for me to investigate further…._

His internal monologue was again shattered by a rude external interjection, this one loud enough, Bruce was sure, to actually reach Crane's ears. "Maybe he should use it on himself…. Might help him overcome his fear of going to a gym every once in a while so he can beef up those straw arms of his. Yeah, _just_ like a scarecrow." Titillated laughter ensued. The only people who didn't seem to laugh were Mr. Fulmer, whose face perceivably reddened; Bruce, who wasn't much for laughter in the first place; and Crane, though he did favor the speaker with an icy smile that put an uncharacteristic shiver up Bruce's spine. Crane seemed to consider the youth, moderately good-looking and obviously well-built, his muscles telling even from underneath a bulky football letterman's jacket. Crane's smile changed subtly from wintry to warm and inviting in the blink of an eye. Bruce doubted anyone else had even noticed it.

Crane pulled out a small clear plastic box, containing a nondescript-looking pill from his blazer's inside breast pocket. "I have here… a sample of what we have been working with. Completely harmless… _benign_, really. Which actually acts as an antithesis to the drug we've been discussing today. It actually _invokes_ the response our 'miracle drug' is out to cure. I thought it might be a fun exercise, a few laughs even, to have a brave volunteer from the audience give it a shot…." He turned and made a gesture of deferral to Professor Fulmer. "Provided we have the good teacher's _permission_."

To his credit, Fulmer looked alarmed and uncomfortable with the idea. But a smattering of excited talk and applause from the students was enough to sway him to give it a shot. If a doctoral candidate from Coast City's celebrated Stamford University said it was harmless, who was he, a salaried high school teacher with naught but a bachelor's (in physical education, no less) to argue? He smiled graciously and made a gesture of consent, to which Crane gave a wide smile of appreciation, before laying his heavy gaze back on the football player and pointing one long, angular finger at him. "Why not you, dear boy? A big strong star athlete such as yourself surely wouldn't be afraid to match wits with the likes of me, the good sir scarecrow…?"

The boy blushed, but wasn't going to risk a windfall in his social status by backing down from some brainy shrimp from Coast City. His eyes steely with anger, he sauntered up to Crane, casting amused looks back at his fellow "athletic students" in the back of the room. Crane ushered him to the front of the class, even had him sit at Fulmer's desk. "Comfortable? Cozy? We want to make sure there's nothing going on that might accidentally instigate a fear reaction, like discomfort. I'd hate to have you commit assault and battery against a chair…." The class tittered, and the boy looked like he was ready to eat Crane for lunch, but he finally laughed off the comment and assured him that wouldn't be a problem. "Good," Crane said in a low voice, his lips moist.

Bruce, again, felt that involuntary chill up his spine. Was Crane… _enjoying_ this? He almost seemed… _eager_… to start the project. Bruce felt the warning in his throat, but swallowed it down. _Remember… speak softly…. This isn't the time for unneeded heroics._ He slowly unclenched his fists, and tried to slow his suddenly too-fast heartbeat.

Crane, again with a theatrical flourish, gave the boy the pill. "Now, simply swallow that… yes, like that. I'm glad you seem so capable of following simple direction. Now, just relax…. Close your eyes if it helps." As he spoke, Crane walked… no, more like damn near _skipped_, to the boy's desk, reached into his bag, and returned to the class front with a football cradled in his arms. He leaned over the desk, holding the football up to the boy's face. "Now… why don't you open your eyes for us? Tell me what you see when you look at this." He held the football directly in front of the boy's face.

"It's just a football, man…. What are you, _loco_?"

"Keep looking," Crane said, a dark edge creeping into his voice. "Is that what you _really_ see, Christopher?"

The boy seemed to break into a light sweat. "H-how'd you know my name?"

Crane laughed. "It's stamped on your bag, my dear simpleton." He shook the ball excitedly in front of Christopher's face. "Is it making you… _nervous_?"

Christopher's eyes were glued to the football as if nothing else existed in the world. He seemed to shrink back from it. "Wh-what's goin' on with that thing…? What'd you do to it…?"

"Why, Christopher? What do you see?" Crane's eyes were alight with an otherworldly mirth.

"It's… it's…. It…. Get it _away_! _Get that thing the hell away from me!_"

Crane's voice never rose by a decibel, despite his obvious delighted interest. "What is it, Christopher? What do you see…? What is it… that you're _afraid_ of?"

Christopher's eyes were bulging, and his face was turning a sickly pale shade of green. "How are you_ holding_ that thing, man?! It's… _aaaahhhhh!_ It's freaking _biting_ you, man! Get it away! All those eyes… get it_ away_ from me!" Crane frowned, hesitated, considered… then promptly tossed the football into Christopher's lap. Christopher somehow caught it, and proceeded to scream hysterically. "_OhmyGod! It's ON me! Get it OFF! It's BITING me! It's BITING…!_" He continued on that way, thrashing, and finally fell backwards in the chair to the floor, struggling with the football.

From the back of the room, a girl in a cheerleader's outfit, no doubt the unfortunate Christopher's girlfriend, shrieked, "Just let GO of it, Chris!"

"_I CAN'T! It's latched ONTO me! It's…! Oh my Jesus, it's putting EGGS inside my arm!_"

Somewhere in the room, a student fainted, and then it was pandemonium. Professor Fulmer burst into action, rushing at the wild-eyed Christopher and struggling with him to get the football out of his white-knuckle grip. Students stood up and edged as far away from Crane as possible, who seemed bored now. He removed his spectacles and cleaned one of the lenses with a handkerchief, sighing. Bruce, however, was glued to his seat, unable to take his eyes off of Crane for even a second.

After a few minutes, some semblance of order had been restored to the classroom. Christopher was sent to the nurse's office, sans the offending football, and the students, while still shaking, returned slowly to their seats. Fulmer looked at Crane like he was a frothing mad bear who had come bursting from the woods, his face beet red and veins bulging in his forehead and neck. "Dr. Crane-"

"_Mr._ Crane, if you would. As I believe I've mentioned before, I-"

"I don't much care _how_ the hell you address yourself, sir…. What in the good name of _God_ was that?"

Crane irritably flapped his hand in Fulmer's direction. "_That_, my good sir, was, I'm almost _certain_, entomophobia… the fear of _insects_. Unfortunately it's impossible to know if he was trying to describe a particular _species_ of insect, or just some random amalgamation of a list of them…. As you undoubtedly witnessed, he went quite hysterical before I could get more information."

Fulmer's jaw dropped nearly to his chest. The effect was almost comical, if a bit off-putting. "Are you… sir, are you absolutely _insane_? You could have-!"

Crane yawned. "My dear professor, absolutely_ no_ harm will come to young Christopher. In a matter of no more than an hour he'll be back to his normal, impudent self, free to insult any guest speakers he pleases… though I suspect he may be more cautious around psychology doctoral candidates researching fear and its effects on the human mind." Crane's voice was thick, and his face was slightly flushed. If Bruce didn't know any better, he'd swear Crane almost looked… _aroused_. Finally, Crane turned his face toward the class, as if he suddenly remembered they were there. He seemed to enjoy the silent, rapt attention he now held from them, then began.

"As you have all witnessed today, fear is _still_, by far, the single greatest emotion humans encounter. Fear is what allows us to break through physical barriers. It enables soldiers to fight on through gunshot wounds. It enables mothers to lift cars off of their trapped children. It enables us to do all manner of wondrous things…. But it is a double-edged sword. Fear can evolve into panic, and cause fatal arrhythmias, cause us to freeze up like a deer on the highway with headlights bearing down on us, cause us to become raving lunatics without a shred of mental wherewithal. As the good Mr. Christopher was so gracious as to demonstrate to us." Crane eyed the other football players coolly, as if _asking_ them to interject. No one did. Christopher's girlfriend the cheerleader let a soft sob escape her lips at the mention of his name. Crane gave a small, quick satisfied smirk before closing. "To control a man's fear, is to control a man. Make him _fear_, and you have made yourself no less than God to him. It has been the tactic of every successful leader in history…. Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, even the officers of the U.S. military. They instill in their followers _fear_, be it fear of punitive action, fear of banishment and isolation, fear of solitude and imprisonment, or fear of death (all, by the way, used by all three of those aforementioned examples). And their hold over their followers was absolute. There is no money that can buy you out of it; there is no political power or office that can protect you; there is no single person in the world… who lives without fear."

"What are _you_ afraid of, Mr. Crane?"

Every head spun as if on a swivel in the direction from which the voice came. Bruce Wayne sat, unmoved the entire afternoon, in his chair. His blue eyes pierced deep into Crane's, and for once Crane seemed to stop and take actual notice of another person in the room. He regarded Bruce for several moments. "I don't need to look at your bag to learn your name, Mr. Wayne; I'm afraid your reputation precedes you."

"Afraid, Mr. Crane?" Bruce wore his trademark thin, tight smile, though in his head he was raging. Not at Crane, though… at himself. _I knew something was off…. I _knew_ it. And I let Crane have his way with that boy anyway…. I _should_ have said something. 'Talk softly' be damned; I let that kid get led down the rabbit hole and straight into Crane's version of hell…. And here I was… considering even for a _second_ letting Crane help me on my Mission…! Damn it… damn it… _damn_ it!_

Crane inclined his head, acknowledging his verbal misstep. "No, not quite afraid. Forgive the old figure of speech. Back to your original question, however…. That is quite a personal, dear subject matter to me, and would probably take a great length to explain in any detail. And, unfortunately for you, it looks like my time is just about up."

"Yes…. I'd say so," Bruce responded with deliberate casualness.

They stared each other down, the 15-year-old billionaire heir to the throne of Gotham and the 21-year-old genius prodigy, for several moments. For each, it was as if no one else in the room existed. Then, the bell rang, signaling the end of the day's classes. Crane sighed, collected his briefcase, and exited the classroom.


End file.
